


Attaboy

by general_ginger



Series: The Beginning, The End, And Everything In Between [1]
Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Billy Russo is a Mess, Billy Russo is mostly just confused, Blow Job, Dom/sub Undertones, Frank Castle has a Heart, Frank Castle is a Mess, Frank finds a crack in Billy's shell, M/M, Makeshift Bondage, Mildly Dubious Consent, Praise Kink, They're both fucked up in their own ways, They're both terrible at this talking thing, Those two seriously need to talk things through, undernegotiated kinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 03:11:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17398907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/general_ginger/pseuds/general_ginger
Summary: Frank and Billy share a crappy motel room during a short leave. Frank finds out something he's not sure he wanted to know about his friend's kinks in the bedroom.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a discussion about Frank's habit of saying "attaboy".  
> Frank is not (yet) with Maria in this, which probably makes this not fully canon-compliant when it comes to the Netflix Punisher timeline.
> 
> Please be warned that there is some mildly dubious consent in this. Those two seriously need to talk.

He wasn’t quite sure, the very first time. It could have been the heat playing tricks with his mind, or him still being on the fucking high of having been promoted just days before, or maybe— _maybe_ —because it’s what he wanted to see.

Whatever it was, it’s gone with a blink and Billy’s handsome face was carefully blank again as he stalked off to retrieve the fresh sheets from the provisioning tent that he had asked for.

 

 

And then he saw that expression again, the flush of red in the heat of the sun on Russo’s cheeks, when he sent him off to grab some water two days after.

 

 

And again, after they had returned from a particularly nasty mission that left all of them in the dire need of stitching each other up, and Billy sat with him, patiently wrapping bandages around his bleeding forearm through his cussing and snarling.

 

 

Every single time, there was that surprised flicker in his eyes, that hint of a blush, and then that stupid guarded expression on his face when he realised that he had let himself become vulnerable.

Every single damn time, Frank had casually uttered the same word that would spark this reaction.

_Attaboy._

He threw the phrase around without much of a thought. Something he simply had picked up from where he had grown up, and used whenever someone around him did something nice.

_Attaboy._

And so it had come naturally with Billy, too, especially whenever they had just returned to wherever the fuck the US government wanted them from being back home—whenever he’d do something for Frank, pick his shit up, help him clean and dress his wounds. Whenever he’d take an exceptionally good shot with his sniper rifle.

And Billy’s reaction, every single time, was the same. Stare, blush, clamp back up. It was curious as it was infuriating.

 

 

“D’you ever realise the fuck you’re doin’?” Frank asked, one night, when they had gotten two days of leave but no permission to leave further than to the crappy little town in the crappy hinterlands. Home turf, at least, so there were no bloody _sandstorms_ ; and the motel was slightly less crappy (no cockroaches so far), it even sported a fairly decent bed; _and_ they had managed to smuggle a bottle of insanely strong, self-brewed liquor with them that had gotten them tipsy within emptying half of it between the two of them. All in all, not the worst of nights they’d had lately.

Billy looked up from where he lounged on his stomach on the bed, stretching to gingerly accept the bottle handed to him. Some of the tenseness on his face had vanished somewhere during the first quarter of the liquor, but he had had years to build up his guard, and so even around his fellow soldier and bunkmate, his face remained carefully blank most of the time.

“Dunno, Frankie. What I know, though, ‘s that _you_ have no idea what you’re doing at least eighty percent of the time.” He took a swig from the bottle before passing it back. “Anythin’ in specific you’re talking about or is this you tryin’ to generally be nice?” Russo snickered, propping his chin up on one hand. “Isn’t working, mate. You’re _terrible_ at being nice.”

Frank flipped him the bird in return, spilling some of the liquor on his cargo pants.

A damn shame. That stuff was _good_.

“I mean,” he specified, screwing the bottle closed, just in case, and leaned forward to peer very closely at his friend’s face, “the fucking thing you do wh’never I throw an _attaboy_ your way.”

To Billy’s credit, he was _damn_ good at keeping a straight face; no wonder he kept relieving the rest of the team of their cigarettes whenever they played cards out of sight of their superiors. But then again, they had served together for long enough that Frank knew what his regular straight face and his totally fake poker face looked like. And right now, Billy was giving him the latter.

“I’ve got not the foggiest idea what you’re talking about, Frank.”

To _Frank’s_ credit, he never was one to let things go when they bugged him, and whatever was going on with Billy and that phrase was bugging him worse than the mosquitos buzzing outside the motel. Instead of relenting, he pressed on.

“Y’know, kinda looks like you’re either jus’ really embarrassed, or bloody enjoyin’ yourself. Maybe even both.”

“Jesus, Frank.” Russo sighed, staring longingly at the bottle, but it was just barely out of reach for him, right beside the other man’s thigh. He had half the mind of burying his face in the blanket and calling it a night. Making Frank sleep on the floor sounded pretty damn enticing right now. Unfortunately, knowing his friend, there was no way the man would let this whole thing slide.

“’m not juding, Billy. We all got the things that get us hot ‘n’ bothered, ‘aight?”

Fuck making the guy sleep on the floor—maybe he should punch him in the face instead. No one would ever know where he got that black eye.

“You’re imagining things, mate. Just—let’s go to bed, ‘kay? You’ve had enough of that booze.”

Maybe Frank should have left it at that and gone to sleep as Billy had suggested. Scratch that—he _definitely_ should have left it at that, because for the next two weeks after, things would turn _awkward_ between the two of them. Unfortunately, he was about as tipsy as he was impertinent, and the words left his mouth before he could even stop to think about them.

“You’re going to bed whenever the fuck I tell you, Russo.”

For the precise length of five seconds—Frank counted—the man on the bed merely gawked at him, still propped up on his elbow, as if he was still figuring out whether he could trust his ears or was plainly drunk. Then, with a speed and agility exceptional for his tipsy state, he shot forward, almost losing his balance on the bed, and punched Castle in the face.

He barely managed to twist to the side, not enough to actually dodge the fist, but sufficient to turn the punch that would have broken his nose into a bruising impact against his cheekbone that sent him sprawling on his back. In an instant, Russo was on him, pinning him down to the floor to strike him again.

No man should move this quickly after quarter a bottle of self-brewed shit, Frank thought dazedly, but then again, he kept up rather well himself. The second punch—the face again, fuck Russo—he blocked and directed to the side, countering with a swift retalation by ramming his fist into his assailant’s gut. Whatever he hit with his blind punch must have _hurt_ because Billy wheezed, doubling over, and thus gave Frank the perfect opportunity to shove him on the ground and wrench an arm behind his back, pinning him down with one knee. For a few heartbeats Russo flailed under him, squirming and trying to escape his vice-like grip, but he merely yanked his arm up further until the soldier undearneath him _yelled_ with anger and pain and scrabbled for purchase against the floor with his free hand.

“Stay the fuck _down_ , Russo.”

Miraculously, the squirming body under him stilled, except for the heaving of his chest whenever he drew in a pained breath, angling his face to the side, glaring up a storm in Frank’s general direction. Brown hair stuck to his forehead, an ugly snarl twisting his handsome face.

Frank decided to test the waters, pushing Billy’s buttons just to see what would happen.

“ _Attaboy_.”

He wasn’t even sure what he had expected. Technically, an outcome like those last times he uttered the phrase—stare, blush, clamp up.

Definitely not the stifled moan that wheezed past his lips, followed by a string of curses.

His booze-fogged brain had been right. Billy _was_ enjoying this; and the very realisation sobered him up immediately. This was most likely the last chance to let go, get up, and pretend nothing ever happened.

Instead, he chose to grab Russo by the hair and push his face back against the floor, grinding his cheek into the cheap carpet with enough force to leave scrapes of angry red on his skin.

“Don’t you cuss at me like that, Russo. Show me some respect.”

The way Billy picked up his fight with renewed vigour told him that was the wrong thing to say. Or maybe exactly the right thing and the other man merely decided to be difficult. It was fucking impossible to tell which was which when he had his hands full trying to pin a grown man—not to mention an exceptionally well-trained soldier—on the floor.

“Jesus Christ—will you behave!”

Frank managed to catch the other hand before Billy could use it to scratch him or stab him in the eye, twisting it behind his back to join the other. Whatever this was, it wasn’t going to work if he was constantly in danger of taking serious damage to the face. He looked around the room briefly—sparse at it was, with the bed, a drawer and a nightstand, there was little he could use to disable Billy—and settled for switching both of his wrists into one hand to pull his belt free with the other, the buckle clanging softly.

Under him, Russo stilled completely, and for a very short moment it seemed like he had stopped breathing.

 _Not_ what he had been going for.

With a curse, Frank flung the belt to the side and let go of Billy’s hands.

“Hey— _shit_ , it’s alright. Everything’s fine, Bill. I’m not gonna—I didn’t mean to _scare_ you, _fuck_.”

He grabbed awkwardly at his shoulder, but Billy rolled to the side and swatted his hand away. “Don’t you fucking dare, Frankie.” The confusion must have been written across his face, because Russo bared his teeth at him. Fucking _growled_ , like a feral animal. Looked like one, too. “Don’t you fucking dare to _stop_.”

Whatever this was—it was confusing, dangerous, and would potentially end up hurting either of them, but the wild, almost manic glint in Billy’s eyes told Frank that there was no way out of this anymore. They had overstepped the line and there was no return from it. He swallowed the panic welling up in him and held Russo’s gaze. Realised that maybe he needed this, as a release for the shit they went through on a daily base. And made a decision.

“Turn back around. On your front.”

This time, Billy did not put up a fight. Instead he rolled on his stomach the moment the words had left his lips, and even placed his hands behind his back.

“Attaboy,” Frank crooned, leaving him there to retrieve his belt, then returned to press one knee on his lower back, just in case, and used the robust strap to securely tie his wrists together. He sat back to get a thorough glimpse of his work, and realised that _maybe_ he enjoyed this, too. Russo looked less angry now with his arms pulled back, trying to hide his face against the rug, but this wouldn’t do. Perhaps it would be merciful to give him the dignity of hiding his face, but with his cheek throbbing painfully and the other man so _obviously_ needing this, Castle did not feel like showing him any sliver of mercy.

Bending down, he grasped Russo by his bound arms, and roughly guided him up to his feet, then walked him the three steps it took them over to the bed. Instead of shoving him onto the mattress—a quick glance to his face revealed Billy to be staring at the bed, so obviously, he was expecting just that—Frank kicked him roughly in the hollow of his knees, sending him back on the floor half a step in front of the bed, this time more or less upright. He shoved his way in front of him, heavily sitting down on the edge of the mattress, legs splayed to either side of the soldier kneeling before him, who looked anywhere but up at his face, his cheeks burning.

“Was that so hard?”

He wasn’t expecting a reply of any sort, rather believing that Billy would go for sullen silences, so his brows shot up in surprise when the other soldier spat out an answer.

“ _No_.”

Well, a pleasant surprise, at least, though not quite satisfying just yet.

“No, _what_?”

Russo stared up at him, brows knit together, lips curling with disgust, but he conceded nevertheless.

“No, _sir_.”

As cautiously guarded as his face usually was, as expressive was it now. It was obvious how the man was fighting with himself; his expression shifted fluently from anger—at himself, or at Castle?—to shame and back again, never once settling back to the handsome façade he so carefully had crafted.

It was utterly beautiful, and Frank could not wait to find out what other expressions he could draw from the man. For now, he cupped his jaw, tilting his head further to peer down into his dark eyes.

“You’re gonna do as I say, soldier,” he drawled, by now too far gone to question what the fuck he was doing.

This time, the reply came more swiftly. Russo’s pupils were blown wide, his breath shaky.

“Understood. Sir.”

Something clenched in in Frank’s stomach. Sure, this wasn’t the first man he had been with—they were in the fucking army, there was a high probability for every soldier in deployment to be on the giving or receiving end of an awkward hand or blow job at some point.

Neither of them had been so blindingly handsome as Billy fucking Russo.

Neither had done that weird thing to Frank’s chest where it suddenly felt too small to breathe properly and his heart pounded violently against his ribcage, while arousal burnt hot in his belly.

Castle pushed his thumb against Billy’s lips, marvelling at how easily he opened up to it. He didn’t close his mouth again, instead allowed him to press the digit down on his tongue, jaw relaxed and throat working subconsciously. A sight for the gods, but at this very moment, Frank would not even share this with them. He pulled his hand back to run it through Billy’s hair instead, brushing the strands clinging to his face back and lingering there. When he looked carefully, he could spot the way Billy tilted into his palm, straightening his back just the faintest bit to press into the contact.

He was starved, he realised. Starved for this touch. _His_ touch. With the realisation came the angry fire of jealousy. He’d make damn sure that no one else would see him like that, ever.

They were a messed up bunch, the two of them.

Pulling back, he fumbled with his cargo pants, popping the buttons open one after the other. Only then did he register that he was _painfully_ hard in his underwear, his cock straining against the flimsy fabric. Billy looked, wet his lips, then directed his gaze back up, as if awaiting his order. There was still an alarmingly haunted quality to his gaze, but there was the heaviness of arousal, too. His cheeks burnt pink.

“Bite and you’ll regret it,” Frank warned him nevertheless while he eased his erection out of its confinement, placing the other hand behind Russo’s head to guide him forward. He went easily, holding his gaze until he couldn’t, but he kept his lips pressed together until Frank pushed at them with two fingers, hooking them in to hold his mouth open and slide his cock in. They remained there for another moment, just to be safe; and because of the delicious sound Billy made when he pushed down on his tongue a smidge too hard.

Eventually, he had to pull his fingers out in order to grasp onto Billy’s hair with both hands, heaving out a harsh breath through his nose while he willed himself not to shove forward _just yet_. This wasn’t just for his own pleasure, he reminded himself. It was for Billy’s, too.

It turned out that either the guy was a natural, or—and Frank leant heavily towards the latter—he had done this more than once before, and not just in creaky bunks and flimsy tents. There was a brief moment in which it looked like Russo was going to gag, but when Frank made to stop and give him a few seconds to breathe, he forced himself to swallow his shaft down further, even when his eyes started watering during the last inch.

Jesus, that guy had some dedication.

Castle remembered belatedly what that was about—what had started all of this—and hummed. It was hard to concentrate like this, with Billy on his knees for him, arms bound behind his back, lips stretched around his cock.

“Attaboy. There we go, easy. You’re doin’ well.”

It must be the praise that did it for him, Frank mused, because Billy’s eyes fluttered closed for a short moment. He leant back slightly to keep his gaze on his expression while he used the hands in his hair to slowly pull him off, until the tip of his cock rested on Billy’s lips, before he carefully eased back in.

In and out. Slowly, for now, even when it took every ounce of self-control he had left.

He caught the way Russo’s brows furrowed, how he tensed his arms against the belt restraining him. How he strained against his hands at the back of his head, trying to pick up the speed, until Frank had to forcefully grip onto his hair to hold him in place. Instead of giving in to his silent demand—depriving _himself_ of the pleasure of fucking Billy’s throat with reckless abandon—he stilled completely, grimly staring down at the man in front of him.

The stifled growl he received in return went straight to his cock, forcing him to bite down hard on his bottom lip to suppress a moan. They were playing by his rules here, which Billy had agreed to, had told him he _understood, sir_ , and if he now decided to misbehave, he had to face the consequences.

So, with a harsh exhale and grunt of _almost-pain_ when Billy’s teeth scraped along the sensitive underside of his cock, he pulled him off with one hand. Then backhanded him across the face with the other.

Russo made barely a sound when his head snapped to the side, instead stared wide-eyed up at him, tonguing at his busted lip that dripped a steady flow of blood over his chin.

“Ready to try again?”

Frank ran a hand under his jaw, quickly checked for his pulse, because Russo’s face was almost sickly pale, with blotches of red mottling his cheeks and a bruise forming where he had shoved him into the carpet earlier. His heartbeat was rapid, but not irregular enough to rise concern. Billy’s chin nudged his wrist when he nodded.

“Yessir.”

His teeth were stained red with his own blood.

This time, he held himself loosely when Frank cupped the back of his head with one hand and pushed his cock in with the other, not attempting to have things his way for once; and since he showed that he could be _good_ , given the right incentive, Frank finally took mercy on him and started fucking his mouth in earnest.

It took him little more than a few harsh thrusts, already halfway coming undone from just the sight _alone_ , until his movements grew sloppy and he finished with a grunt that might have been Billy’s name, his eyes watering with the strain it took to keep them open, gaze trained on the soldier’s face as he spilled down his throat.

He watched, an actual moan falling from his lips, as Billy’s throat worked around his softening cock to swallow every last drop.

Even now, the soldier would not pull away, waited patiently until Frank eased out of his mouth. He had the audacity to lick his lips without breaking his gaze when he finally did.

Jesus, this guy.

“Attaboy,” Castle rasped, petting his ruffled hair before gingerly tucking his cock back into his pants, taking his time to get himelf presentable again. “You need a hand?” He jerked his head slightly, staring unabashedly at the bulge straining against the front of Billy’s pants. But the spell was broken. Russo turned his face away, clenching his teeth.

“No,” he ground out, after a moment of strained silence. “Just—untie me.”

Frank did not hesitate. The moment he freed his hands and sat back, Russo bolted into the tiny bathroom and locked the door behind him.

Maybe he had ruined it all, Frank realised with a sinking sense of dread. Maybe this was the end of their friendship.

When Billy eventually returned from the bathroom, he found a bottle of water next to his side of the bed, and Frank huddled underneath his scratchy blanket with his back turned, pretending to be asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo since the boys were foolish enough not to talk about what the fuck happened in chapter 1, I decided to add a second chapter. Poor Frank is worried about his friend and chooses a stupid way of getting him to talk.

After the incident at the dingy motel, they didn’t speak any more than strictly necessary for a whole of two weeks, avoiding each other’s presence as much as they could get away with without the rest of their squad taking notice. And yet, Castle frequently found himself staring over at Billy where he sat on the other side of the canteen with his back to the wall, pointedly ignoring the animated chatter and scrape of cutlery against plastic dishes around him. Even from almost sixty feet away, Frank recognised the erratic quality to the way he stabbed at his bland meal.

Billy was his friend. He couldn’t fucking take this.

 

 

Crowding in on Russo while he was sitting in a shaded patch of grass in front of their barrack to clean his gun had maybe not been one of Frank’s better ideas, but when he set his mind onto something, he had a habit of losing track of the fine nuances of the plan in favour of the primary goal. It was precisely why he needed Billy’s keen eye for details so much.

As it was, he did not have said keen eye on his side of the board right now. Instead of managing to initiate a meaningful conversation about what the fuck had happened between them, he found himself on his back with a loaded, freshly cleaned gun pressed underneath his chin and a lapful of furious Billy Russo on top of him.

“What the _fuck_ , Castle? Are you bloody _insane_?! I could have shot you, for fuck’s sake!”

For what it’s worth, he lowered the gun to the side pretty fast, staring wide-eyed down at Frank—heart racing with shock. He _could_ have accidentally shot the man. He didn’t move to get off of him.

Frank raised his hands defensively, prompting another barely suppressed twitch of the hand holding the weapon, before Billy realised that he was unarmed.

“I’m just here to talk, Billy, I swear. Not gonna hurt you.”

Russo’s chest heaved, but he finally flicked the safety of his gun back on, placing it in the grass next to Frank’s head. Next time he snuck up on him like that and crowded into his personal space, he might end up shooting the guy in the foot, just to teach him a valuable lesson on boundaries and bad ideas.

“You _do_ realise that you could have asked me for a conversation, right?” He shifted on his lap, shoving Frank back down into the grass when he tried to sit up.

“Didn’t look like you wanna talk, so this seemed like a good idea.” Castle shrugged casually, but remained on his back. For someone who had gotten way too close to be shot by his best friend, he still looked entirely too relaxed, even though there was a certain tenseness to his jaw and he scowled up at him.

“Well, you never were the brightest tool in the shed,” Billy commented sharply, giving his chest another firm shove for good measuere. He was being mean on purpose, and he knew that _Frank_ knew, because his scowl deepened to an almost worried frown.

At that very moment, Russo hated him. He didn’t need any goddamn _pity_ , not even from Frank Castle.

But Frank demanded to talk, and when he had made up his mind about something, he was like a stubborn hound; biting on and not letting go until he got what he wanted. Best to get this over with before anyone walked in on them.

“Alright. You wanna talk, let’s talk. But not here.”

Billy got up, patting down his cargo pants. He pointedly did not offer Frank a hand, instead jerking his head in the direction of the storage unit before he went to collect his weapon and gun oil. There was a corner in storage bulding barely anyone frequented, their go-to place whenever either of them wanted some time to themselves, and sometimes to share a bottle they filched from one of the other guys. No one would bother them there.

And if Russo ended up punching the other man in the face because he didn’t like the course of their conversation, well, there would be no one else to report him, and Frank was a lot, but not a snitch.

They crammed into the small storage room at the far end of the flat-roofed building, kicking buckets and supplies to the side. Frank settled on a metal crate, while Billy remained standing, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“So. Spit it out, Castle.”

 _Castle_ , not _Frank_ or _Frankie_. He rarely used his surname when they were in private. Not much in public, either.

The name felt like a punch to Frank’s gut. He leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees, awkwardly staring off to the side and trying to figure out what to say. Words didn’t come easily to him, not like they did to Billy, who had the tongue of a devil and knew exactly what to say in order to sway whoever he spoke to. Part of him wished that the man restlessly shifting in from of him would start the conversation because it was _obvious_ that he knew what this was about, but decided to leave him squirming and fumbling for words.

Frank cussed under his breath, running a nervous hand over his trimmed black hair.

“So—you know. That night at the motel—the thing that happened there. With us. I can’t stop thinking about it, and I’m—Billy, I dunno whether I did something wrong. Things’ve been so _off_ between us after that.” He stumbled over the words, refusing to look Russo in the eyes, but he could feel the man’s piercing gaze without having to look. Could imagine the guarded expression on his face.

Billy remained silent. Screw that fucker.

“Look—Jesus fuck, Billy, work with me here!”

He finally raised his head, locking onto the stare Billy gave him. Calculating. Unapproachable. Refusing to have him look past the façade and let him in, like a window with the shutters closed. Where was that vulnerability that Frank had caught a glimpse of in the motel room?

“I got not the faintest idea what happened back there, and, look, if I did something wrong, then I’m _sorry_. Jus’ don’t leave me hanging like this. You’re my friend, Billy.” He rubbed his nose, working his jaw. “I wanna help you.”

Wrong approach. Russo clammed up even more, stepping back until he hit the shelf behind him, rattling a box of cleaning supplies.

“I don’t need any help, Castle, not even from you.”

Slamming a hand agains the wall next to him with an angry shout, Frank rose from the crate.

“Of course you fucking do, Billy!” he snapped at his friend, immediately regretting it when Russo drew his shoulders up, subconsciously curling in on himself. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he held it, then released it with a huff of air. “Look. Whatever happened there, I don’t wanna have it standin’ between us. You don’t wanna talk about it an’ instead pretend it didn’t happen? Fine, we’ll let it go.” Grabbing Billy by the shoulder, he tried to meet his gaze. He seemed rattled, behind that carefully crafted mask of his, but also alert. Wary of what else Frank might have to say. Castle swallowed, ignoring the small voice of reason that told him this was a _terrible_ idea. With a low voice, but without breaking eye contact, he murmured, “If you need a repeat though, no strings attached, no judgement. Then I’m down for that, too.”

Russo’s eyes snapped up to Frank’s, widening in surprise. It was stifling hot, the walls—the room, it was too small all of a sudden, and Frank was way too _close_ , and his words made no _sense_. All he wanted was to get out of here, out of this situation.

“I don’t—understand.”

“Billy.” For once, Frank seemed to read the situation and acted accordingly, letting go of Russo and stepped back to give him the space. He didn’t say anything else, simply waited for him to catch up, no matter how long that would take. Billy rubbed his shoulder, where Frank’s hand had grasped onto him with almost bruising force.

He had always been there for him, with that sometimes a little clumsy, too direct, socially pretty much _unacceptable_ way of his. Got him through the first few weeks of serving together.

Billy had a pretty face, and he knew it. People with pretty faces sometimes ended up in nasty situations. Frank had gotten him out of them multiple times, before he could do something that he would have regretted and the people involved would not have survived.

When they had gotten shit-faced on the night of Frank’s first promotion after they had gotten to know each other, the man had wrapped an amicable arm around his waist, helping him stay upright as they staggered back to the baracks. He had sympathetically held his hair and patted his shoulders the morning after.

Frank wasn’t like all those people before. All those people around.

Frank was fiercely loyal, and protective, and would do right about anything for him. Maybe even take a bullet.

Frank, with how impulsive and rash and _vicious_ he could be, was safe.

Billy rested his head against the metal shelf digging into his back, and closed his eyes.

“You don’t understand, Frankie,” he sighed. “I’m fucking messed up.”

Castle neither recoiled in horror, nor did he try to crowd into his personal space again. Instead, he sat back down on the crate with a snort. “Aren’t we all? Fuck’s sake, Billy, we’re Special Forces. We all got our skeletons in the closet. Would’ve been a surprise if you didn’t. You don’t need to talk about it, if you don’t wanna,” he added quickly, because Billy snapped to look down at him like he might bolt any second again.

Compared to his, Frank’s face was so painfully open. He wasn’t even a man of many words, but he carried his heart on his sleeve. Made himself vulnerable without ever worrying that he might get hurt; because if he did, he would not hesitate to pay them right back in kind.

Sometimes, Billy envied him. Other times, he was worried for him. One day Frank might get hurt in a way that he couldn’t recover from. He’d have to make sure no one got close enough to him for that to happen.

“You won’t ask any questions.” Frank nodded in response. “And you won’t tell anyone.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Castle reassured him, holding his hand up in a half-mocking, half-earnest three-finger salute. “Promise I won’t do anything you don’t want, either. But for that to work, you gotta be honest with me about what you _need_.”

“Doesn’t that technically qualify as you asking questions?” Billy tilted his head to the side, but a smirk played on his lips. He was merely teasing now, tugging on Frank’s leash. The elecric tension between them had dissipated.

The walls around them shrunk back.

Frank flipped him off with a roll of his eyes, but he couldn’t help grinning. There was the Billy Russo he knew and cherished, always a flippant remark on his lips.

“Nah, I’ll jus’ let you talk. You tell me what you want from me, I do it. Easy. You’re in control, you understand, Billy?”

For all his problems of voicing his thoughts, Frank still always somehow found the right words with him. Billy smiled faintly. “What if at some point I ask for something you’re not ready to give?” He dropped down next to Castle on the crate, close enough that their shoulders brushed.

“Well,” Frank shrugged, bumping against him. “We’ll have another conversation when that comes up, aight? Just promise you won’t shut me out again. I _was_ worried.”

“Fine, fine. No shutting you out, I’ll tell you what I want—any cream with that? Maybe a cookie?”

“Jesus, Billy, you keep talking like that and I’ll reconsider my offer.” Frank playfully ruffled Russo’s hair, giving the short brown strands a teasing pull. “Gotta admit, sometimes I prefer that side of you that’s too occupied to talk.”

“I’m offended. Thought you liked the sound of my voice.” Billy allowed his head to be tugged to the side, resting it on Frank’s shoulder with a sigh. “You’re a terrible person, Frank Castle.”

“So are you.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments.

“Let’s be terrible together.”


End file.
